


Whispers in the Dark

by EbonyGaze



Category: Manhunt (Video Games)
Genre: Addiction, Blood and Gore, Drugs, Gen, Horror, Implied Necrophilia, Masochism, Sadism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28448799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyGaze/pseuds/EbonyGaze
Summary: Starkweather has found a new plaything for the Smileys, and they will fight for his head juice.
Kudos: 1





	1. Euphoria

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is welcome - definitely wanted. Not sure where exactly to take this series, but I want to write it in chapters. It took me some time to complete the first chapter, due to writer's block, college, and work. Begins with Mouth of Madness, except it goes a little in depth about the events preceding it.
> 
> Enjoy what you can of this flimsy story. Please give feedback if you feel inclined to. I'm just a Manhunt fan wanting to expand the game's small library
> 
> And happy New Years Eve!!

Slimy meat chunks roll under weathered boots. They grind between the muddy grooves that smoosh them against the checkered floor. The boots hold onto hairy legs, which are covered in blood. Head juice. The voices that bark inside of an incorrigible brain, jumping, nearly yanking the chain from the wall that holds it back. A masked man in a blue shirt and overalls bashes his taut, white-knuckled fist against his throbbing temple, feeling the wood handle of his meat cleaver delivering more pain to his skull. Not that he’s complaining.

Tonight he got head juice. The others, too. They got out of their shitty shithole cells. They tore up their sheets, covered in crimson red stains, banging on the cement walls of their cells and giggling with sickening glee. Nothing held them back anymore. Not even metal bars. A guard massacre unfolded within a blink of an eye. Every single one of them. Jugulars — or whatever major blood vessel their blades could find amid their vicious chopping — were severed by rusting cleavers, causing the guards’ blood to pump profusely from the openings. With each pump, and desperate gasp for air, a new patch of blood soaked different parts of the Smileys’ clothes and skin, glistening in the fluorescent light outlining their rippling muscles. For other guards, a metal bat or hammer came crashing down on their skulls, the impact of the trauma ringing in the Smileys’ ears. But it was a ringing they wanted to feel hit against their eardrums, one they wanted for a long time. Mangled teeth, brain matter and cranial contents could be seen floating in the head cavity, like soup in a bowl, as the empty space suffused with blood. Some Smileys chose strangulation as a means of killing the guards. Their rough, hangnail covered fingers lunged for their throats, digging their thumbs in as far as they could go, through the taut neck muscles and bones — every tear, pop, and snap making them shudder with gratification.

A rush they never had before suddenly fueled them. Euphoria flooded through them like monstrous ocean waves. Some of the masked killers ran down the hallways, slamming their bats and cleavers against the brick walls and laughing and screaming at the top of their lungs, just to release all of that excitement welling up in their nervous systems. For some of the guards, it would be the last sound they’d hear before taking their final breath. At last, they were the ones running the show, the ones calling the shots around here. To be reminded of their power, they found some rope and began to tie the guards’ violated bodies around the penitentiary like Christmas ornaments, jumping around in circles beneath them, their laughter echoing throughout the shadowy halls. Puddles of head juice pooled around the facility, trickling through the cracks of the black and white slabs that the tiled floor was paved with. Little pieces of their remains fell from the ceiling and stuck to the floor, some into piles as a result of buildup. Another overalls Smiley even slipped in one of the puddles and fell onto the floor, the dumbass. His chest and arms were soaked in even more head juice, becoming his essence. But he hasn’t moved in a while...

Dipping a finger in blood, mohawk head smears his third-person gibberish over the walls. Fug is broken beyond repair. The others laugh at his trauma and boisterous behavior because it’s funny, but they also wonder if he’s going to pull something in the future, especially now that they’re free to do what they want. Not that they really have his best interest in mind; but he’s one of the stronger Smileys in the group, and they need that, so maybe in a way, they do give a shit about him... for now at least.

At the sound of steel toe boots booming through the entrance, every Smiley comes together into a tangled wad because they were told to expect a visitor. Mr. Ramirez has appeared. Black muscley man. Big scary Ramirez. A formidable man hardened by his past in the war, now standing before a sorry group of degenerates. He means business.

“Alright, you sick bastards. Mr. Starkweather will be sending you your bait soon, so buckle up and-“

One unfortunate Smiley is giggling an unwarranted giggle. Something like rage washes over the dark brown color of Ramirez’s only good eye. It doesn’t look good.

He snarled between clenched teeth, the Smiley’s thick neck suddenly in a leathery chokehold. His colleagues watch the black gloves tighten, taken aback by the lack of hesitation Ramirez has shown. They listen to the inside of his neck get fucked up. Bones pop loudly, tearing through the raw meat just a hair’s breadth away from the skin around it. His nerves twist in knots, having no chance to be of use again. Ramirez’s crusty thumbs force themselves into his windpipe, the cartilage snapping and caving in, having succumbed to the vicious pressure of this man. And they can’t help but feel a little aroused — because of Ramirez’s dominance, or the harsh sound effects, which varies from Smiley to Smiley. But still, they watch in silence, frozen but not bothered by their colleague's brutal death, he was a dumbass anyway. Rather, the threat Ramirez imposes on them. Falling from his grip, the Smiley now rests on the tiled floor with a deep purple color clustering in his pale neck, still pretty warm — inviting to his breathing cellmates… not now, though.

“Don’t be like this asshole and get yourself killed. Now get going,” Ramirez says sternly, pointing at the dark foyer in front of them.

And off they went, Ramirez watching their footsteps with clenched fists. Even being one-eyed, his gaze still burns through their backs, like a pointed laser. And none of them dare turn back and look directly at him. Under his command, they scatter in several directions, finding positions in different parts of the murder house. Upstairs, outside, maybe inside their cells if they’re clever. James Earl Cash, they hear, is no joke, even through fighting off the effects of sedation. James ‘Cutthroat’ Cash, Mr. Starkweather calls him. He’s a former criminal — their former cellmate, apparently — a mean, ruthless guy. Shaved hair, rough scar on his forehead, somewhat tall. Has eyes that chill you to the bone, according to Mr. Starkweather. Kills with ease, no remorse following the violence. Stone cold murder. So far he is the director's favorite leading man, and that speaks volumes about his prowess. But the Smileys have so much faith in themselves that they have nothing to fear; they’ll have this guy running for his money — and his life.

But little do they know they’re underestimating his momentum — hell, everyone involved in the film hasn't noticed it, not even Starkweather. It's real, and it's coming for them.


	2. Chapter 2

Cash’s vision is clouded by a dull grey color. His surroundings look warped as he tries to make sense of what’s going on, or where the guards dropped him this time. Numbness tingles in his thrumming legs, weighing on his calves to a degree that makes him feel like he can’t move any further. It’s as if quick sand gripped his legs by the jeans, which fold and wrinkle awkwardly as they quiver across the grody, stained tiles of the floor. An aching pulsates within the chambers of his skull, and nothing else except the aggravating, staticky sound of Starkweather’s voice corrodes his focus. Every fucking word and noise from Starkweather that his earpiece transmits to his brain makes his stomach churn in a way he has never before experienced, save for when he watched the last group kill his family.

Removing the earpiece is tempting, and he would have goddamn done so already if he didn’t rely on his guidance.

“The lunatics have taken over the asylum, Cash,” the director apprises nonchalantly, as though he has experienced a frightening reality all his life. Because he has. He has _seen_ it, but he’s never gone through it. It isn’t him who’s walking through a shithole in a worn out pair of sneakers, carrying out brutal kills against his will. It isn’t him who’s fighting for his life, or potentially a miniscule, desperately wanted sense of freedom if the former isn’t promised. Instead he’s safe inside the plastic earpiece, laughing and masturbating behind a flickering computer screen. Trained mercenaries and some secluded room somewhere out there keeps him out of harm’s way, Cash will learn eventually. Starkweather’s words leave through his other ear when his eyes drift off to brownish-red colors that stand out against the brown and beige terracotta tiles underneath him. There’s blood that appears bigger the further he walks down the foyer, splatters of the fluid following the shape of the dried cement between the bricks in the walls on a bright, slimy display.

_That’s a lot of blood_ , Cash muses to himself, his consciousness returning to normal. _How many people did they kill?_

“The only way to reason with these gibbering idiots is with a stick… and a gun,” Starkweather coos, his words passing through charred teeth, and somehow Cash could hear a perverted grin that plays on his lips as he finishes his sentence. Irritated, he rolls his eyes. _Shut the fuck up._ Starkweather has a soft, somewhat melodramatic way with words, as if he’s trying to reassure Cash that the murderers out there are his friends, like children on a playground, and the snuff game is all pretend. But it’s not. They are real threats, gambling with their lives — who is to say they are guaranteed to make it out alive — for a chance to make money, ironically forcing him to be the victim in a criminal world that he’s well acquainted with. And for once in his life, despite the hard, mean features of his face suggesting otherwise, he feels scared.

Cash is almost through the calm before the storm. The foyer looks and feels empty, not a masked man in sight. But the voices of past hunters reverberate within the hollow walkway. His imagination is messing with him. He hears the racist slurs of those skinheads, the peculiarly poetic whispers about death from the Mexican killers, and their colleagues’ pedophilic threats. He relives the feeling of an axe slicing open the skin of his upper arm, a knife biting through his back, or a bullet passing through his thigh amid an intense chase. The memory alone is enough to send adrenaline racing through his system again. He’s seen it all, _felt_ it all, yet another pang of fear washes over him because he knows the next group will only bring more than the last. According to the setup of the snuff film, Starkweather has the hunters in order from least to most prepared or armed, or so it seems that way. It’s like a video game, where each group comes in levels, and they presage an increase in difficulty the further he progresses.

The doors that slowly come into view will inevitably lead him to the dangers that await him. Apprehension clambers through him when he begins to guess what the next batch of hunters will look like. For now, he wants to somewhat enjoy the deceptive feeling of safety before the doors open and lead him to the next stage in Starkweather’s sick snuff game. The air feels stuffy, humidity lingering in the building. His feet labor closer toward the metal door in front of him. Somehow he knew this door was the one he needed to go through. Only moments later, the sound of Starkweather’s voice is channeled through the earpiece, the words confirming that he’d guessed right.

“There’s a hunter in the next room through the mesh door. Hack him up, and I’ll buzz open the next set of doors for you.” Cash’s heart starts to thump again. Despite that he has killed multiple times, a part of him still dreads the beginning of this new stage. That same part wishes it wasn’t a sedative that had knocked him out, rather the real thing. Even with the right tools under his belt, in that very moment he feels hesitant. He wishes he could undo everything he has done in the past. He’s scared; he feels like a pussy for it. He doesn’t want to walk any closer to the thing that separates his life and his death. Never in his life did he see his actions leading to this. Getting caught by the authorities was one thing, but _this_ … is a completely different punishment of its own. In the end, what he did wasn’t worth it. Now the people that he jeopardized his relationship with -- and still cared for with whatever decency remained inside of him -- are dead. Not only that, but they died in a horrific way. If Cash actually _did_ die, and this is a sick, sadistic afterlife that he has transcended to, he hopes they are still alive in the mundane world, that their deaths were an illusion. None of this feels real, it feels like a dream. But the anger that inundated him… that did. It burned so hot in his chest that it hurt. The next thing he knew, the very thing that projected his nightmare was held above his head in his hands. And the one person who was there that could’ve showed him sympathy, despite that he didn’t expect any, chose to taunt him and make the trauma worse. He can still hear the glass of the television shatter against the floor.

Suddenly, a new wave of energy rushes through him. The hesitance he felt is drowned out by a fresh, newfound hunger. Whatever the next gang has in store for him, he’ll take it. So he pushes the door open, letting the light from the fluorescent lights above him leak through the opening. Starkweather is the reason he’s in the middle of this shit. If it wasn’t for that twisted fuck, he’d be in a relatively more peaceful place right now. He wants to be dead, not listen to him feed him lies or get off to the pain he is feeling, or even the pain his men felt before they died. Even to cold, ruthless Cash, it feels wrong. Starkweather has exploited him all night… and he won’t let him get away with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is finally here. Enjoy.


End file.
